If we talk about scenography, theater seems to meet us, with its multiform production or, perhaps, those principles related to art, still life that demand and impose a substantial harmony of its forms. Instead, the world is constantly scenography. With its ability to naturally draw corners, bays, absolutely extraordinary landscapes, imposing on man its laws, its rules. Not only. Just slip between the simplest things. Take the smallest, banal organization of a photo album. It’s not a obvious, it’s quite another. There is the need to move each image so that it can integrate with the one next to it. To the right, to the left? I wonder. We are guided by a very personal instinct, I would say almost dowsing related to the taste, sensitivity, the scatting, the ability to merge each snapshot next to another. Strange, inscrutable laws guide our hand and try to place everything in the right space.
Like organizing an art exhibition. We try, we try again, hoping to find the right wall for that work. An exercise of experimentation carried out, sometimes, with the equipment of a gallery owner, a critic, a friend. To strike the eye of those who want to cross that dimension, pushing themselves beyond the gaze.
Here, in an art world where disorder, creation and fantasy dominate, everything must be rearranged in an ordered, precise and schematic dimension. Like the walls of an art gallery that must wisely dose every emotion. As a catalogue where even the colors must be put in order and positioned with intelligent creativity. Like a biography, where, alongside the images, the chronology itself develops the sense of a discourse, an analysis, a more or less articulated criticism.
Recover a nearly planned setting where rebellion, confusion of colors and materials, incoherence and irregularity lives. A task that art constantly gives to the world, disturbing its balance, its hierarchies, its precepts. Roles that have no rules. Dictated simply by experience, taste, eccentricity. And while each collector, based on his own experience, remains in pursuit of its own cultural and auriferous vein, we continue to move in a babel of languages, moods, inspirations and instincts.
That’s why art remains a complex game. A maze that tries to rationalize the ungovernable, laboriously classifying the disobedient lawlessness.
